


shot right through with a bolt of blue

by toffeelemon



Category: Handsome Devil (2016)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post canon, and they were ROOMMATES, bants and stuff, canon compliant homophobic slurs, mushy teenage gay feelings, white bois and their stupid blue eyes, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toffeelemon/pseuds/toffeelemon
Summary: After all that they've been through, Conor didn't mean to like Ned. He really didn't. Besides, he still doesn't know if Ned is gay or not.And Ned is definitely not a normie and the sort of cliche who falls in love with the first gay person he meets.(title from New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle)
Relationships: Conor Masters/Ned Roche
Comments: 27
Kudos: 225





	shot right through with a bolt of blue

**Author's Note:**

> a love letter to soft indie boys, queer teenagers, and roommates. x
> 
> (terrible at english tenses please just bare with me)  
> some songs referenced: bizarre love triangle (new order) / pale shelter (tears for fears) / ziggy startdust (david bowie) / i'm not in love (10cc)
> 
> (don't judge my music taste, i know ned wouldn't have approved rip)

Practice feels a bit aimless right after their big win at the Senior Cup, and no matches till the next season, but Conor keeps up as always. He’s kind of overcompensating with his effort (what he was born to do, really), despite already having proven himself with the historic win. Conor still feels queasy about being out with his team (and everyone really, although he really does not give a fuck about the people he never bothered to make friends with outside of rugby), so he just plays extra hard, and hopes that the boys who stood by him for one match wouldn’t turn against him quite so quickly.

“So, is Ned actually your boyfriend then?” 

Victor asks awkwardly, when it was just the two of them in the changing rooms, most of the team having gone quiet abruptly and made a beeline to evacuate when Conor deliberately walked in 10 minutes later than anyone else. It’s not great, but it hasn’t exactly been the end of the world since the Cup either, so Conor mostly perseveres. Let them think Conor is working so hard just to perv on them - he doesn’t have the energy for that bullshit anymore.

The mostly well intentioned captain speculating on Conor’s lovelife though? That was a tongue-tying headache he did not see coming. At the awful life-defining moment, Conor definitely hadn’t thought as far as the repercussions of being one half of the iconic pair of queers-slash-roommates-slash-friends. It doesn’t take much to try and put two and two together, even if everyone didn’t set out to torment Ned already. Anyone who’s ever shared with Ned had been held against him, nonetheless a roommate who dared not to be hostile towards him. And obviously, they’re both gay. Well, people think Ned is gay anyway. Conor actually still hasn’t got a clue.

Conor sputters at Victor without ever returning a real answer, hoping that he wouldn’t read too much into it. 

Conor didn’t mean to like Ned. Not in  _ that way _ , but also just generally. In fact, Conor didn’t mean to like anyone in Wood Hill College anyway, hardly here to make friends and more determined to keep his head down and just survive. 

Truth to be told, Ned was the first queer that Conor has ever met in his entire life. (Does Mr Sherry count? Mr Sherry is a whole different breed - Conor would probably never have clocked if he never had that regrettable first drink after the quarter finals.)

Well, meeting by a socially acceptable definition anyway, and not the nameless lips and hands, and crotches rubbing into his thighs, that Conor only encounters when he’s blackout drunk at one of the bars. It would be too pathetic even for Conor if he falls in love with a man just because he has a dick and he wants Conor (drunk, underage Conor. Yikes.)

On his first day, Conor felt a lot of things and nothing all at once. But that spike of hope in the pit of his stomach, when the giant Suede poster of two blokes kissing greeted Conor in his new room - in addition to the usual nauseous unease when affronted with anything  _ gay _ in the presence of either of his parents, with his mother pulling that very difficultly maintained straight face - that was new. Something was blooming in his chest. 

Conor hadn’t listened to that album before - managing to not avert his eyes when spotting it in the record store was a feat in itself. And then it was staring down at him in his new dorm as he tried to piece together the mysterious Ned Roche through the sea of quotes and album covers on the walls.

The time the poster had on Conor’s wall was short-lived. Weasel torn it, called Conor’s roommate a homo, and everything clicked into place. Conor’s heart was pounding as he stared at the carpet, and so did Ned. Obviously Conor was scared shitless - the team could never know - but there was also the pump of adrenaline from being right. Conor wasn’t the only one. Not even in this room of two. What are the odds.

Conor didn’t move a muscle when Weasel was yanking Ned by his jumper, and Conor dutifully tried to change rooms as per his team’s instructions, and yet he was unreasonably disappointed when he returned to the room to find the Berlin Wall erected and his wall stripped bare. 

Conor didn’t want to admit it, but he was trying so hard to impress Ned. Sure, Conor was always one to care too much about what people think, but even he would gain nothing from impressing someone who was literally at the bottom of the social ladder. It was no security blanket, a risk even, to fraternise with Ned Roche - and yet, Conor wanted his attention so badly.

Conor likes boys (obviously, and that was no surprise to himself by now), but he had never liked a boy in particular before. Contrary to popular belief, he spends more time being fucking terrified of being a perv than actually relishing in a changing room of naked almost-friends. His previous roommates felt like inconvenient furniture, and Conor never dared to, or even had the desire to actually indulge like many might think. But he lets himself like Ned. He really, really  _ likes _ Ned. 

Ned is lovely to look at (he’s like one of those beautiful and tragically misunderstood rockstars that he’s so pretentiously obsessed with), and he’s smart, but most importantly, he’s gay. Or at least that’s what everyone in this school seems to think. Conor allows himself peeks, more generous than he’s ever been his entire life, because as fate would have it, Ned was too busy proving that he wasn’t going to bum any roommates to notice Conor being the real culprit. 

It was inevitable. Conor had only narrowly succeeded so far in avoiding falling for a boy because he never let himself to even look at one. It was already a whole ordeal being gay, and on top of it was actually having boys in his life. Boys were forbidden in Conor’s book - they either want to slit Conor’s throat for being queer, or at the very least, were straight and not worth Conor’s emotional expense. Conor kind of forgot that it was a possibility until now - that he would want to get to know a boy, get too dangerously close, and said boy could maybe reciprocate his destructive feelings. Of course the existence of Ned Roche sent his head spinning. He was pretty and snarky and unexpectedly friendly at times, he’s an enigma and most importantly, he’s gay. (Conor thinks. Conor hopes.)

That first morning on the field, when Conor broke Weasel’s nose - he never answered Ned’s question, but it felt fucking amazing. Conor hasn’t really started caring about Ned yet, he doesn’t think so, anyway - it still felt like one of his greatest victories. It was a win for Ned, a win for them. For boys like Conor and Ned, who are not like  _ them _ . Conor should’ve known he’s fucked from the moment when he stopped hating himself for who he was and started subconsciously identifying with Ned instead, including his new pal into his  _ us versus the rest of the world _ .

All is forgiven in Wood Hill College once Ned came back from the National Essay Competition with the 5000 quid cash prize - a threat to rugby (mostly Conor Masters) or not, money is money. Conor was actually really happy for Ned, mostly because he didn’t get expelled right after the whirlwind of a half term, but also that Conor thinks he’s brilliant and it’s nice to be reminded from time to time that Ned deserves Conor’s stupid crush. Ned was happy too, that he didn’t actually get expelled, but also because he has finally proven to be not entire useless, although only Mr Sherry really saw his worth. And yet, he held up a fight when asked to read his essay to the entire school. Conor knows that Ned hates being put on the spot, but Ned was overreacting stubbornly, even by Ned’s drama queen standards. Mr Sherry held Ned up after English to pressure him into it. (Conor thinks Mr Sherry is being too gentle after the guilt of making Ned sing at the talent show. It was mostly Conor’s fault that Ned was traumatised, he feels bad. He really, really wants to hear Ned’s essay and Ned wouldn’t show him at all. He wants Ned to know that he’s got him the next time Ned needs to be vulnerable, and it’s okay. Guess Conor fucked up too hard with the disappearing act last time.)

“Sir, I just,” Ned stammers in frustration, “I uh - you’ve heard it at the competition. I just really don’t want to expose Conor in front of the whole school any more than I already have. It’s not my story to tell.”

Ned’s standing next to the teacher’s desk even though Mr Sherry had asked him to sit, fiddling the fold up cuffs of his shirt. Mr Sherry is relentless.

“Well, but you thought it was fine to write about it, and share it to all the strangers on the competition panel? A little too late for that now, innit,” he deadpans. 

“I... at the time it felt like my story!” Ned argued, hardly knowing what he meant. Ever since he pulled that idiotic stunt, it was all that he could think about. The essay had been cathartic to write, almost like a self orchestrated apology and forgiveness. Obviously, Conor being Conor had quickly forgiven Ned, but Ned felt so guilty still, convinced that Conor didn’t know what he was talking about and hadn’t felt the full force of the backlash just yet. These stupid people didn’t deserve to know that he found Conor in a gay bar, that Ned thought Conor belonged with him on the outside. He already hates revealing himself to his peers - Ned couldn’t do that to Conor either. 

“Sir, I’d really rather not let them know. Truth be told, I don’t think they deserve it, I’m sure Conor would agree.”

“Has Conor himself read your essay?” 

“Urm, no,” Ned swears that Mr Sherry is trying to see right through his soul. It sounds like the right thing to do - Ned is terrible at speaking to people, and all the words are already written down on paper. Conor probably should read it.

“I think, maybe you should let Conor decide for himself whether he wants his story to be told?” Mr Sherry arrives to a compromise gently, harbouring some burden of knowledge of his own. He knows he was being a hypocrite, but he wished things were different with these boys. They’re trying. It’s trying times. 

Ned hands the crumpled original to Conor with a mad blush one evening, immediately walking back to his bed and intently staring at the floor whilst Conor read it with Bowie playing softly in the background. 

Conor, well. Conor feels like he took a surprise tackle that knocked the air out of his lungs, like he’s been offered a window to glimpse into the inner workings of Ned Roche. He’s probably hyper-fixating on all the wrong things, but his lips quivered a little as he went over the paragraph in which Ned said he spotted Conor at the gay bar and realised they were  _ both on the outside _ . Conor scanned the words over and over again until he was dizzy, trying to decipher if that meant exactly what Conor hoped it meant. 

And well, all the mushy talk at the end about being Ned’s only ever friend, it made him want to jump up from his bed and march over to where Ned was, squeeze him so tight in a hug until Ned understands just how much Conor needed him in his life too. But Conor doesn’t do that. Instead, he purses his lips and tries to hide his feelings as usual, not wanting to scare Ned away.

“It’s good. It’s really good, Ned,” Conor said understatedly, with the risk of almost tearing up a little. Ned only blushes to a delightful shade of pink, muttering to himself. 

“So that’s how you found out about me.” Conor stated simply, biting down on his tongue.  _ I was starting to think you sensed that I was different because you could just tell, _ he doesn’t say. Conor still doesn’t know is Ned gay. Not that it was socially acceptable to persistently ask - but Ned never said no either. And then there was the very subtle, hidden confession in between the lines of the essay somewhere. Conor’s shit at English, he doesn’t want to presume. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, doesn’t want to think about what would he be more disappointed by: the fact that he was alone and Ned wasn’t his queer buddy after all, or the prospect of Ned ever liking him back totally lost.

Sometimes Conor is almost convinced that Ned wasn’t queer all along, and is just reeling in teasing Conor so much for sweet revenge against rugby players in general. Ned seems to earnestly believe that they are good mates (and that they are), but it didn’t stop Conor’s heart fluttering when Ned recites the essay at assembly with Conor’s blessing, with all the eyes curiously landing on Conor as some people actually tried to follow the story. Ned’s a nervous wreck, voice shaking slightly despite him usually being good at this stuff, mostly peering down at his paper as if he was letting everyone in on a massive secret. Conor supposes it was right for some people to read into Ned and his friendship to assume and speculate. Maybe he’s projecting, but undoubtedly there’s something rather homoromantic about writing an entire essay on how much you treasure a (gay) friend as someone who got bullied for being gay, and titling it  _ Handsome Devil _ . 

_ Handsome Devil _ in particular makes Conor blush. He’s not that much of an airhead rugby player, he knows it’s a punk rock reference, and is supposed to be interpreted as how Ned felt that Conor was the more popular, handsome version of his ostracised queer self who Ned was bitter about and jealous of. Something along those lines. And yet Conor couldn’t stop dwelling on the fact that Ned sincerely finds him objectively good looking. Conor knows he’s built from rugby, that he’s actually fit in the literal sense. He’s not particularly proud of it, but he won’t deny it either. But  _ handsome _ \- it’s not a word he’d imagine associated with himself ever. Ned is the one with a pretty face - his perfectly arched eyebrows and nose, his big bright puppy eyes, the classically handsome cheekbones, and even the endearing Dumbo ears; they piss Conor off so much. No one should be allowed to be so delicately beautiful. And together with the whole intelligent tortured soul thing, Ned really is way out of Conor’s league. Conor is mad that Ned had the audacity to call him  _ handsome _ when he himself walks around looking like that, an oblivious idiot.

Ned was curious when Conor sheepishly tells him how he has a habit of ending up in gay bars whenever he’s blackout drunk. Or he gets drunk enough so he would have the guts to go out, it’s really an egg and hen matter. Conor feels fucked up when he thinks about it too hard, and he really hasn’t told anyone before Ned. There’s nothing more fucking gay than that, but somehow it doesn’t scare Conor to admit to Ned that he enjoys the attention of strange men and even let them shove their tongues down his throat and grope him a little, when Conor’s feeling particularly self loathing and/or self indulgent. (It’s complicated and fucked up, Conor doesn’t quite understand either.) Ned doesn’t judge him at all, and Conor appreciates this so much, even only as friends. 

Ned doesn’t tell Conor that he has never had anything beyond blued hair boys (and girls, for that matter) flirting him silly at the record shop, and for how flamboyantly perceived he might be, Ned is technically not anymore gay than the boys who pecked each other on the lips once in truth and dare. There’s being gay  _ in theory _ , and there’s actually being gay. Ned blushes hot at the thought of Conor snogging some random man, such depart from the macho rugby boy he was during the day. 

Getting off with strange men doesn’t actually matter that much to Conor, not past the role it plays in his internal turmoil about being gay. Conor’s been so transfixed at the gross,  _ sinful _ acts of being gay that he almost forgot that being with another boy could actually matter. That being gay actually constituted feelings. Conor will probably remember for the rest of his life the first time he wanted to kiss Ned. The first time that he ever wanted to kiss a particular boy, and not just any boy because he was horny and angry with himself.

It was cold. They were sitting close to each other in the middle of their hideout, so close that if Conor swayed too much, his guitar would bump into Ned’s. Ned looked cosy in his denim jacket, over his actual blazer, messy tie and his untucked shirt. As always, zero fucks given to the dress code and this school in general. Conor distracts himself with the sight of Ned for a bit after his fingers get the hang of the chords without consciously thinking about them. Ned couldn’t even hurt a fly if he tried, and yet he is the reckless bad boy out of the two of them. That is mainly why Conor got so obsessed with Ned, really. He was jealous just as Ned was jealous of him. Ned unironically flaunts his taste in vintage rock, his stupid dyed hair that sticks out, and prances around in his cool jacket with badges of subtle Stonewall and rainbow references, not even bothering to bite back when the entire school calls him a  _ batty boy _ . Conor secretly wanted to be unabashedly queer like Ned. Ned might be built like a twig, but he’s so strong and resilient. He could dwell in the misery of his life being made hell by pretty much everyone in the school, and yet still find the time to smile and laugh at times like this, when he’s just himself with Conor without all the snark. (It took Conor a while, but eventually he got through the wall, both physical and metaphorical.)

They were making stupid clashing noises and pretending to be punk rockstars, when suddenly, one of the strings on Ned’s guitar snapped with a twang. They stared at each other for a good minute of silence, before bursting into uncontrollable cackles. Ned’s sandy eyebrows shot up and his eyes sparkle at Conor before crinkling up. Ned is so pretty with his stupid bright blue eyes and stupid Dumbo ears and freckles high on his cheekbones. _ I want to kiss him _ , Conor thought distractedly as Ned laughed away.  _ I want him so bad. _

Conor still doesn’t know how to navigate a world where his truth is out in the open. Well, it feels nice, like there’s one less thing he has to give a fuck about, but very unfortunately (or not) Ned Roche the resident queer is his roommate (and one of his only mates) so - Conor never hears the end of it. Half of it are sneers and snickers, and that fucking bizarre purring noise that followed Ned everywhere, but the other half were semi decent people like Victor, genuinely curious. It’s not really harming Conor, but it’s driving him insane - he was genuinely curious too, as Ned and him fall back into their nice rhythm of their lovely friendship before all the shit went down, now with the added weight of tension between them. Obviously, Ned doesn’t care for what the people in the bubble has to say - bitterly Conor wished he cared more. Maybe then Conor could begin to believe that Ned felt something more too.

Conor’s crush hit him some time in between feeling the need to be protective (which was like, his second day of school, embarrassing) and feeling accomplished when he finally got to know Ned. Conor was just talking about music, and sailing, and immersing in the feeling of freedom when there’s nothing but just ocean around him. Ned properly looked into his eyes for the first time, eyes shimmering like something in Conor that wasn’t rugby was worth caring about. Conor noticed then that Ned’s eyes were a stormy blue - just like the sea in typical Irish weather, how Turner would’ve painted it. It’s beautiful, and it doesn’t scare Conor at all. It reminds him of being alive in the wind and the water, and soaring up and above all the rubbish in real life. Everything is blue.

At first Conor was just seeing red for his otherwise perfectly normal roommate getting bullied for being gay, but the better Conor knows Ned, the more he wanted to keep him from harm’s way. Ned is a breath of fresh air, the generous blue sea, the soaring freedom. Of course Conor would put up a fight if anyone tries to take it away from him. 

After the midterm, Ned, somehow not expelled, came back with a faint scar on his cheek. He’s sitting on his desk, swinging his legs to Tears for Fears playing on his record player when Conor walks in. He stares at Conor expectantly. They hadn’t really had the time to speak after the finals, with Ned being grounded and towed back home right after. There were a lot of things left unsaid. 

“Hey.” Ned nods to Conor as he dropped his bags onto his bed. “I just wanted to say again how sorry I am, you know. For telling everyone. I’m an idiot.”

Conor luckily escaped the immediate repercussions because the cup final was so conveniently timed, he didn’t have to go back to school right after everything - the roller coaster of being outed and then somehow redeeming himself with rugby. But if he were to be honest, he had pretty much totally forgiven Ned in a heartbeat, after the hug between them that seemed to stretch on forever right after they won the cup. Ned made this happen - a win, for  _ them _ . Conor couldn’t be mad at him after that.

Conor moves to stand right in front of where Ned was sitting on his desk, to seem more sincere in his forgiveness. He owed Ned an apology too. He might not have punched Ned in the face, but he might as well have when he dissociated himself from Ned and pushed him away (literally), right outside the squash court where they used to have so many fun memories of singing together. Conor was the one who was punched in the gut when Ned glared back up at him from the ground with his puppy eyes, hurt and dejected, and giving up on Conor. 

“Does it hurt?” Conor all but whispered, as he curiously swiped a delicate thumb across the slightly silver scar cutting right across Ned’s cheek. Maybe Conor was asking about more than just getting physically punched. He swears he saw Ned blushing, eyes fluttering and muttering that it wasn’t a big deal. It was. Conor thought he grew out of it, but he desperately wants to beat up everyone who would ever hurt Ned. Even though Ned could clearly handle himself. Ned defended himself just alright before Conor came into his life, but Conor doesn’t want him to have to. 

It was almost Christmas break but apparently Ned can’t wait until he gets home, because one evening, Conor came back to the room to find Ned sitting in his bed with his hair slicked back with bright red chemicals that truly stinks, and Ned begging Conor not to make fun of him. It was hilarious (also low key annoying. It really made the room smell like ammonia). It took Conor way too long to realise that Ned’s patchy blond fringe in his orange hair was intentional - Ned was neither alarmingly ginger, or blond. His roots were a sandy colour not unlike Conor’s own hair, which Ned swore made him look boring. Ned only stopped whining when Conor pointed out that they literally have the same hair colour.

“It looks fine on you, Conor.” Ned groaned exasperatedly, “I look plain without this.”

Conor wanted to protest, but he likes the orange too, so he kept it to himself.

It finally registered in Conor’s head when Ned is back from the shower, towelling his freshly re-dyed hair. It’s slightly darker than before, almost close to burgundy, and it looks very nice on him. Conor had been spacing out and staring at Ned’s new Ziggy Stardust poster, and then subsequently staring at Ned sitting right in front of it.

“Mate… don’t tell me that you dye your hair this ridiculous colour to look like Bowie,” Conor exclaimed in sudden revelation, and Ned’s silence confirmed it all.

“Jesus, seriously? I know you are try-hard edgy, but this is next level!” Conor laughed, mercilessly teasing an increasingly red Ned. The colour of his cheeks almost matched his new hair, and he threw the wet towel across the room at Conor. Conor dodges and doesn’t stop laughing.

“What, you think you’re just like David Bowie? You have some way to go, pal,” Conor teases gently, once he was done pulling his abs from laughing too hard. Ned is snarking at him, without any real bite.

“I mean, we have some things in common!” Ned argues weakly, narrowing his eyes at Conor.

“Yeah what? Like you can sing?” A bit mean of a dig considering how Conor ditched him at the singing contest, but Conor went there anyway. They have since mended the grudge between them. Ned was suddenly quiet.

“Uh, just like David Bowie, I like both women and men?” Ned muttered under his breath, so softly that Conor almost didn’t catch it.  _ Oh. _

“Right.” Conor replied, as neutrally as he could, sobering up immediately. Ned was staring straight into his soul with his big blue eyes, looking for a reaction. 

Conor didn’t know how to react. He was shocked, but also not really. Maybe kind of relieved. It’s complicated - but he appreciated the clarity. He hasn’t entertained the possibility - now everything makes sense. The Bowie hair (obviously), the posters of  _ both _ blokes and chicks (especially the Suede album cover which Ned eventually revealed was actually two chicks kissing, and not two guys), Ned feeling like an outsider. He supposes Ned is right in never confirming nor denying whether he’s gay. Conor truly doesn’t mind, he’s just happy to know that he still has a chance, although an internally homophobic part of him wonders would Ned ever choose him (or any other boy, really) over a much easier way out. 

“Yep,” Ned smacked his lips, staring very intently at a spot next to Conor’s left knee when the eye contact became too much. He doesn’t know what he was so nervous about, it isn’t like anyone ever believed he was straight anyway, not even before he figured it out himself. And if there’s one person Ned can trust in this godforsaken school, it’s Conor. They’re in the same boat so really, Ned shouldn’t be freaking out so badly. 

Ned isn’t sure how he wanted Conor to react - he just desperately wants his best friend (and only friend really) to be okay with it. It’s silly, but Ned is afraid that he’ll never belong to one or the other - he’s definitely not straight, but he’s not quite  _ gay _ either. He wonders if Conor would feel betrayed. Ned knows it’s not his fault if Conor does, but he still had his heart in his throat, waiting for Conor to say something, anything.

“So are you gonna tell me you had a girlfriend this entire time?” Conor broke the ice in the end, eyes shimmering in mirth and tone light to be obvious that he’s just teasing. Ned isn’t exactly expecting some heartfelt acceptance speech, so it’ll do. This is easy and familiar, and nothing’s changed - it was what he hoped for anyway. They haven’t really talked about  _ gay _ things (whatever that might mean) before, contrary to popular belief. It’s awkward enough to share a room with a ripped rugby player who exudes homoerotic energy, if they explicitly acknowledge that they’re both into dudes, Ned might actually explode. 

“Sod off!” Ned is laughing too, raising his head to catch a glimpse at Conor. Conor pokes his tongue out and flicks his fringe without thinking about it. He didn’t have to, but Ned felt the need to defend himself anyway.

“I like boys more than girls anyway,” Ned’s voice lowered to a squeak as Conor whipped his head up to look at him. Conor sucks in a quick breath that he hopes Ned didn’t hear. They blink at each other for a few seconds, Ned peering at Conor through his eyelashes.

Conor bites his lip and lets himself watch Ned intently. “Yeah? You do?” 

Ned turns a delightful shade of pink, heart hammering in his chest. Conor is being flirty, he must be. Conor has never bitten his lips before, not like  _ this _ , not  _ at _ Ned. He knows because this isn’t the first time he noticed Conor’s lips. He made the mistake of staring at them once (or twice or thrice) when Conor starts singing before him, lost in his own world. Not to be extremely  _ gay _ , but Conor’s lips look kissable, for the lack of a more fitting description. Conor has no right to look at Ned like this right now, like he might rugby tackle him into bed any second. 

Ned hates him  _ so _ much. Ned really, really didn’t want to be that stupid stereotype who falls for the first gay person he meets (he’s pretty sure Alex the barista at the indie cafe back home was always trying very hard to pull him, but he doesn’t really count). Ned hates this school, rugby, rugby players; especially rugby players who prove that Ned is indeed a perv by being unfairly fit. Yes, atrociously, Ned finds most of the team hot (he’s a misanthrope, not blind) even though they make his life hell. So when he walked into his supposedly empty room to a ripped, hot and bothered Conor Masters, he tried his fucking best to hate him. Obviously it flopped spectacularly. They’re mates now (which is nice), and Ned really wants to keep it that way, just out of spite, because he can’t prove all the bastards right again by hooking up with Conor just because they’re the only two queers within a five mile radius. Rationally he really doesn’t want Conor ( _ ha _ who is he fooling but himself), because he can’t, and he shouldn’t: he’s not a perv, and he could be chummy with a gay, disgustingly hot and surprisingly interesting boy without wanting to snog him, god damn it! But Ned swears his unhumanely attractive gay (only) friend is making eyes at him like Ned is not way under his league, and Ned wants to spontaneously combust. 

They’re sitting way too far apart to have this conversation. Conor has always hated the five steps between their two beds, for so long keeping them apart and both miserable, but right now he wants it bloody gone. First the revelation was too intimate and personal to float through the space between them. And then Conor had to be bold and done that. The competitive streak in him, the one that never steps down from a challenge, wants to walk right up to Ned and ride the wave of the tension in the room. Conor’s obsessed with Ned, he likes blokes too, what could possibly go wrong. Ned gulps as Conor stands up.

Conor drops Ned’s towel back onto his head, ruffling his hair briefly through the towel before retracting his hand, sighing as whatever he built up dissipated as soon as it appeared. Ned looks up at him with big, bewildered eyes and  _ fuck _ , Conor wants to kiss him so badly. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back into his own bed and chuckles at nothing in particular. Ned echoes him in a forced nervous laugh.

“Well, it’s all the same to me. You get twice the option and still can’t manage to pull anyone,” Conor falls back into the harmless teasing he’s familiar with. Ned cringes slightly. It’s just banter, but it weirdly hurts. He knows he’s less good looking than Conor by a mile, and it was well within Conor’s rights to make fun of it, and yet Conor making him feel undesirable is the last thing Ned wanted to dwell on. 

“Oi,” Ned’s protest was flat, and so was him when he fell into bed to turn his back towards Conor. Business goes on as usual after this little incidental night, and Ned tries hard to forget the memory of Conor looking at him with hooded eyes and bitten lips.

There was one more match before the Christmas break, a friendly exhibition match that didn’t really matter in town, and Conor dragged Ned to the pub social afterwards because Conor didn’t trust himself with alcohol and honestly, after the last time Conor got catalytically drunk, who was Ned to argue. Ned tried to persuade him into not going, but Conor hates being coddled (he only has a terrible relationship with his dad, not the actual alcohol), so here they are, sitting at a small booth in the corner of the pub, comfortably at a distance from everyone else. It’s odd that Ned tagged along to the pub with some of his long time bullies, but no one really bothers them, except Victor sending them curious glances every now and then, so he doesn’t mind all that much. Ned doesn’t know why Conor want to come if he’s not gonna mingle with his team or the opposite team, but they’re having a fun time watching people in their little corner, so he isn’t complaining.

“How about her?” Conor points out someone else’s girlfriend who had tagged along. Ned scoffs. They’ve been doing this for the past half hour now, Conor pestering Ned in his newly revealed bisexuality and being intrigued in Ned’s taste in women. Ned wonders why doesn’t Conor just go talk to one of his hyper masculine straight teammates instead. This is very weird - it’s like that one liberal straight friend who aggressively wants to talk about boys once you come out, but in reverse. Ned rolls his eyes at the blonde girl that Conor chose.

“Okay, surely you would fancy _ her _ then,” Conor narrows his eyes at one of the girls who came with the opposition team, who was clinking her pint glass with Wally’s. Conor tried; one would assume that Ned would be interested in a girl like that. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, had a cool alternative look with a Pink Floyd shirt tucked into her denim skirt and fishnets under it, and a pink bob haircut. Conor thinks Ned’s artsy arse probably belonged with someone like that.

“Nice try. But no, I’m surprisingly averse to people as indie as me, it’s too much to be constantly reminded of how pretentious I am. Plus, she’s a lesbian,” Ned quipped. Conor splutters in his cider. How does Ned even know these things, he doesn’t understand. Sometimes Ned is so nonchalent sabout being queer that Conor gets whiplash. It’s admirable. 

“Ugh, fine. What _ is  _ your type then?” Conor asked in surrender, carefully avoiding to mention which gender was he referring to. He just wants to know what kind of people is Ned attracted to. (Could it ever be Conor.) Ned pulled his lips taut in an annoyed smile, before finally humouring Conor, jerking his chin in the direction of the bar.

“Him, I guess,” Ned looks away and hides behind his glass as he took a swig of his drink. Conor turns his head to find the number 8 of the opposing team chatting with Victor. Conor remembers seeing him out of the field - he was good. Well-built, just a bit smaller than Conor himself, and classically handsome like a hybrid of Conor and Victor. Personally not really Conor’s cup of tea, but he didn’t really have a type before Ned (he still doesn’t, it’s just Ned), so he can’t judge. But still, Conor didn’t expect Ned to fancy someone so... ordinary. (In Conor’s world of rugby, at least.) Conor had thought that no one was good enough for Ned if they weren’t fashionable city boys who unironically read Shakespeare and watch subtitled films, and were definitely way smarter than Conor is. 

“Really? But he’s such a ... rugby lad!” Conor exclaimed, eyeing the lad again.  _ You hate rugby!  _ he wanted to add. Yeah the guy is good looking, but he just kind of looks like Victor. (Conor is not a perv, but he has eyes.) Does Ned have a thing for Victor? After all, Victor is usually the guy who came to Ned’s rescue, if you could call breaking up fights that. Something bitter settles in Conor’s stomach. Victor is straight, but Conor couldn’t help but feel competitive. 

“Yes I know,” Ned groans exasperatedly, noting the full irony of his taste for stupid airhead rugby boys (mostly one in particular, although Conor is hardly stupid at all). 

Conor nudges Ned under the table, and Ned follows his line of sight to find Victor pointing said rugby lad to them. Fuck. Ned widens his eyes in true  _ gay panic _ , whilst Conor looks pointedly back and kicks him under the table. Conor doesn’t mind talking rugby with other people, but they’ve agreed that Ned isn’t to abandon him today and vice versa. The guy stops in front of their table and leans his weight on an arm on the back of Ned’s chair, holding out a hand to Conor.

“Hey, I’m Rory. Conor right? Great work out there,” he sends Conor a dazzling smile and claps his palm in Conor’s. Conor instantly hates him. Conor tries to smile back, but he’s terrible at it as usual. Ned is frozen in his seat. Good looking or not, beefcake rugby players always give him bad vibes and make him flinch, call it survival instinct. 

Surprisingly, Rory doesn’t delve into talking shop immediately, but instead turns his attention to Ned with a charming grin. Ned wants to disappear into his seat.

“And who’s this?” Rory grips his skinny fingers for a bit longer than necessary, and Conor is suddenly reminded that they haven’t even held each other’s hands at any capacity before. Ned shoots Conor a look for help in return before turning back to the dude before it was too rude. 

“I’m Ned. I’m not on the team, if you haven’t noticed,” Ned shrugs and laughs awkwardly, hoping that would be a good deterrent from Rory speaking to him any further. Rory fucking giggles.

“Yeah I have, that’s why I came over to see what were you doing here!” Rory isn’t malicious at all, he was genuinely teasing. The tables have turned and somehow Conor is the one who’s getting totally ignored. Ned stammers.

“Uh I came to support my team?” as much as it pains him to say it, Ned couldn’t manage to make watching his roommate play not sound gay otherwise. 

“Aww that’s nice of you. So what do you do?” Rory leans closer if that was even possible, and Conor’s nostrils flare as he watches Ned squirm and blush lightly at the tip of his ears. He’s definitely not jealous of the stupid golden boy of the opposite team, who’s an expert on making Ned nervous in a different way from how the Wood Hill team usually does. 

“Erm I play the guitar,” at that, Rory subtly pats Ned’s knee with an exaggerated praise, and Conor swore he could’ve started a fight right there and then. But he doesn’t, he seethes quietly and watches Ned panic and not quite moving away from the guy either. Conor doesn’t know should he let Ned try and enjoy this as a good friend or should he save Ned (and mostly himself from nauseating jealousy) from this annoyingly perfect rugby heartthrob. 

Ten whole minutes of Rory sitting in the booth shoulder and shoulder with Ned later, in which Conor attempted to bore him with shit rugby talk, they finally escape with some crappy excuse. Ned is wheezing as they saunter towards the station and safely away from the pub. Ned is mostly bent over, in laughter but also maybe a slight panic attack, and Conor uses it as an excuse to wrap an arm around him and pull him into the right direction.

“Fucking hell, what was that,” Ned mutters under his breath, and honestly Conor could say the same. 

“I thought you were enjoying it. Pretty sure he was trying to pull you,” Conor says, trying to not be bitter. Ned actually looks scandalised, as if he had no clue.

“ _ Me _ ? Why? Does he not have eyes?” Ned exclaims in self deprecation, but Conor finds no humour in it. Anyone with eyes would notice how much of a catch Ned is. If only Ned could stop with his persecution complex - but maybe then, he would not be by Conor’s side anymore, so the selfish Conor doesn’t speak up when Ned jokes about himself like that.

“I thought you fancied him anyway,” Conor quips when they’re on the mostly empty train, right next to each other even though there were plenty of seats. Ned shrugs, looking bored.

“He kinda looks like Victor,” Conor points out, wiggling his eyebrows at Ned. Ned huffs.

“Ew, no,” Ned pokes his tongue out. “Wait what, you think Victor is fit? That’s _gay_ , Masters.”

Ned smirks and Conor splutters, blushing a splotchy red. 

“So what? I  _ am _ gay. I have eyes. I mean ew, he’s my captain but also yeah, he’s fit I guess.” Conor doesn’t know why he’s defending Victor, he should just be glad that Ned isn’t attracted to the better looking, more extroverted version of him. But it’s always nice to argue, when it’s not serious.

“Victor isn’t even the fittest on the team,” Ned grumbles, and now Conor’s curiosity is piqued. For a wild moment he entertains the idea that Ned meant him. But Ned doesn’t elaborate, no matter how much Conor pesters him, and how red his cheeks could go. Conor promptly forgets the hiccup of a charming rugby player hitting on Ned. 

Both Ned and Conor didn’t have anyone to pick them up after term ends, and they catch the same train out as they leave school. Ned’s dad and wicked stepmother refused to come back for Christmas - Natalie wants to go on holiday to Bali, and they already wasted their trip back on Ned being suspended during midterm. Ned prefers being home alone anyway, so he doesn’t mind. And Conor, he’s supposed to go home, but his mum had a last minute work trip (sounds like bullshit to Conor, but he’s tired of his mum defending his dad so he doesn’t ask anymore), and she won’t be back till Christmas Eve. Conor is not staying in that house alone with his dad, so he’s resorting to sleeping on the boat until his mother coerces him home. Conor doesn’t like being alone, but being alone is better than being alone with his dad. He’ll miss Ned’s constant havoc in his periphery - you forget to be sad and melancholy when someone else is being more audibly whiny and moody next to you. And Conor is terrible at making himself smile without Ned fucking around near him. He  _ really _ doesn’t want to be alone.

Ned’s staring out of the window opposite Conor, tapping along to his MP3 player. He can’t stop dwelling on the impulse to just invite Conor over to his house, it’d just be like being in their dorm - but their friendship has never existed outside of Wood Hill thus far and Ned is terrified. If it was a girl, it’s definitely shifty to ask someone to be home alone with him. But it’s Conor... is there a bisexual handbook for this? Part of Ned just really, innocently wants to spend time with his good friend Conor. But as usual, his stupid queer side has to ruin everything. He bounces his leg as the train goes further and further away from Wood Hill.

The thought has crossed Conor’s mind but he doesn’t dare to impose when there was never an invitation. He just assumed that when Ned said he couldn’t wait to get away from Wood Hill College, Conor was part of the package deal too. It hurts, but Conor can understand; he’s almost as much of an introvert as Ned is, and Conor is pretty sure Ned had his fair dose of rugby players to last a lifetime. Conor’s stomach twists as the train approaches the pier first, Conor’s stop - he’s not ready to say goodbye to Ned yet, to not see him until next year. He panics, and it’s out of his mouth before he can take it back:

“Actually do you wanna come hang out on the boat? It’d be nice,” Ned jumps out of his seat and follows Conor out of the train before the door could slam shut behind him. Ned has never reacted so fast in his life, he’s been waiting on the invitation since forever. He’s not being clingy if Conor is the one asking to hang out, right. He’s just being a good pal. Plus, he never managed to get a real look at Sirius the last time he was on board.

They ended up sailing out for a bit in the late afternoon - it was as glorious as Conor sold it, the wind in Ned’s hair - and then Conor made tea, and the next thing they knew, it was late and Ned had missed the last train. 

Ned hardly minds at all, this was ideal - he tried to play it chill as he watched Conor struggling to stay awake, casually sprawled on the small double bed at the end of the boat and chatting sleepy nonsense. Ned sits crossed legged at the edge, strumming a stray chord on his guitar now and then. (Ned brought his guitar with him for Christmas, sue him). 

This is all alarmingly intimate. Ned feels at home doing hardly anything in the same room as Conor, but at the same time he’s nervously suffocating in the little air they share between them.  _ On the same bed! _ Ned swears it wasn’t weird until Conor went horizontal. Conor always slept earlier than him - he’s used to having to get up by 5:30, and rugby wears your body out so he gets knocked out easy. Conor was the one who fell asleep on Ned whilst Ned was still on the same bed - Ned is a good boy anyway, he’ll probably sleep on a chair. He won’t try shit, not like he has the guts to anyway.

“Play me something?” Conor mutters softly, keeping his eyes closed the entire time. Ned’s heart is so tender for him - all twelve stones of chiselled muscle, and Conor looks unbelievably cuddly belly flopping on the bed with his fringe falling into his eyes. Ned sucks in a breath quietly and starts singing.

“I’m not in love, but don’t forget...”

Maybe the song came to Ned as a Freudian Slip, or that he’d been listening to too much 10cc lately. Everything feels too real as he basically sings about how in denial he was about his crush on Conor - but Conor was smiling contently and swaying along gently, so Ned keeps strumming.

“That was nice,” Conor says quietly, before turning to lie on the bed on his back. He blinks at the ceiling of the room for a while and they sit in comfortable silence. The boat rocks slightly when it’s docked, and you can just about hear the waves if you concentrate hard enough.

“Ned! Ned, Ned. There’s stars on the ceiling,” Conor bursts out stupidly out of nowhere. If Ned didn’t know better he’d say Conor was drunk. He props down his guitar, scooting over a bit closer in pretence of humouring Conor. He’s rolling his eyes.

“No, really. Come see,” Ned turns his head up to try and make out what Conor was hallucinating, but Conor yanks him down into the mattress before Ned could fight back. He falls on his back slightly askew, side by side with Conor - there was no point fighting a rugby star. Ned scoffs and squints his eyes at the plastic ceiling. There were specks of dirt everywhere, that was it.

“Conor...” Ned whines half heartedly, trying to call him out for being a numpty. Conor huffs out a soft laugh, clearly guilty. He’s drunk, Ned concludes. Not on alcohol, but he’s definitely drunk on something. The laughter shakes through his broad shoulders and shakes Ned slightly. Ned stares straight ahead at the spotty ceiling. He doesn’t remember ever being this close to Conor, except for that bone crushing hug at the game. Heck, he doesn’t remember being this close to anyone, ever.

“They look like your freckles,” Conor is still giggling quietly, turning towards Ned with his entire body and pulling a fond smile. He’s staring, Ned could feel it burning on his side. Ned really tried, he knows he shouldn’t, but he rolls over anyway. 

Conor’s already looking at him. Ned knows he’s blushing, but he tries to look casually annoyed. Conor isn’t making eye contact with him. His eyelashes are fluttering, his eyes settled slightly lower than where Ned’s eyes were. Ah yes, the freckles. Ned pulls his lips in between his teeth nervously as Conor continues to be fixated on the little specks on Ned’s cheekbones. Conor’s breath falters, as if he was going to say something else nonsensical again. 

Conor kisses him instead. 

Ned saw it coming, kind of. One second they were just existing in the same small bubble comfortably like they always do, and then the next second, Conor’s tilting his chin downwards to meet Ned’s lips. Ned gasps just a bit. (He’s shocked? Or he’s been ready for this since like, October.) Conor’s lips were soft and warm and wet. A nice tingle runs down Ned’s spine.

Conor pulls away quickly. Ned, dazed, blinks his eyes back open in confusion. Oh, so Conor’s blushing now after pulling this shit. 

Ned, still high on the kiss, tries his hardest to glare at Conor with wide eyes for denying Ned so soon. In Conor’s eyes he just looked like a sad dejected puppy, and Conor absolutely cannot take that, after their feud that night outside the squash courts, so he slips a palm behind Ned’s neck and pulls him back in.

It’s good. He’s so good. It’s all so unbelievably good - Ned knows Conor has done this countless times, Conor has confessed to being _ a bit of a slut _ before he transferred - but Ned is still surprised. Conor tugs softly and Ned chases him with his entire body, he never wants it to end. His big hands are calloused but so incredibly gentle as they run through Ned’s rough burgundy hair. The same hands that tackle and break noses - Ned didn’t know Conor had this softness in him. Ned gingerly holds Conor by the waist - he’s so strong and tough - and somehow he’s right here, under Ned’s skinny fingers. 

“You’ve done this before?” Conor whispers breathlessly, nose distractedly tracing at Ned’s when they stop again. Ned huffs in embarrassment, and shakes his head for the slightest bit.

“That bad, huh,” he laughs to himself, but Conor doesn’t let go and is brushing through his hair again, the other hand holding him close. His hair literally uprooted aside, Ned just can’t think when Conor’s hands are on him. Conor’s silly drunkenness has infected him through his touch - Ned feels warm all over, he feels dizzy, he couldn’t get out of this bed if he tried. 

Conor shakes his head vehemently. It’s so far from being bad - he can’t get enough of Ned. It’s been a dream. He likes Ned so much, it actually makes him a little bit mad if he thinks about it too hard. The fact that he’s kissing Ned and Ned is letting him. Heck, Ned is kissing him back. 

“You have done this loads of times then,” Ned teases, after feeling particularly brave and reaching up to plant a wet smooch on Conor’s jaw. Conor’s smile was small and fond.

“Not when l really wanted it.” 

Conor leans back in, and his jutting jawbone pushes at Ned’s chin as they kiss and kiss and kiss. Ned clutches at the fabric at Conor’s waist and brushes a slither of skin. Conor takes everything that Ned would give, and in a blink of an eye, Conor flips them over and holds himself above Ned on all fours, straddling Ned’s hips with his big thighs. Ned chuckles to hide the breath he gasped in harshly, trying his hardest to focus on Conor’s eyes and not the rest of him spread out across Ned. He shouldn’t like  _ this _ \- a big, muscular rugby player towering over him and effectively trapping him. But Ned  _ does _ like it, so fucking much. All he could see is Conor, all he could hear is Conor, all he could feel is Conor. Ned has never been so glad that he’s attracted to blokes. Conor is in no way girly - and Ned loves it. He’s so fucking gay, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. Not if he could have  _ this _ . 

Conor knew what kissing men is like, but he never knew it could be like  _ this _ . Kissing someone he likes, kissing Ned. Everything in his world is amplified by ten fold, colours are brighter and his heart is so damn loud. He wants to stop breathing if it means never being apart from Ned. Conor’s hand shake when he brushes at Ned’s bare waist where his striped shirt has ridden up, and Ned melts right into his touch as the shirt hitches up higher and higher. Ned is so lovely, Conor wants to cry. He never knew that being gay could be so  _ lovely _ . 

Ned reaches up to close the distance between them, pushing himself upwards on his boney elbows. He yanks Conor down by the neck when he’s not getting enough, and Conor whimpers from the back of his throat. People think Ned is just a compliant pile of lanky limbs, but Ned is actually such a boyish jock when he wants to be. He throws punches that don’t land, he jumps over fences, and he puts up a fight and tangles his own fingers in Conor’s messy hair too. Conor has Ned right where he wants him, but he also likes Ned like this, pushing and pulling back. He’s just a boy, just like Conor. Conor cheekily slips him the tongue and smirks in satisfaction when Ned jerks and kicks his legs beneath him. He sighs and drags Conor in closer, closer and closer. Conor could feel his abs rubbing against Ned’s flat stomach, skin on skin. It’s all really really good, and really fucking hot.

Conor’s heart clutches in his chest, with lust, but also with something else. He likes being with boys so much, but he likes Ned even more. He likes Ned so fucking much, mind, body and soul. 

It’s heating up the longer they go at it, now rolling onto their sides with their fronts pressed together entirely, legs tangled. But before Ned could panic, Conor slows it down, returning to gentle little pecks as he traces delicate circles under Ned’s ear with his thumb. They stop kissing to smile at each other softly, then Conor buries his head in the nook of Ned’s collarbone. They pull away, blink at each other before lazily kissing again. It happens several times, before eventually Ned falls asleep with Conor cuddling into his chest, arm slung over his hip. Things could never be the same between them again.

When Ned wakes up, he was alone in the bed. He panics for the initial minute, before sighing and flopping back onto the bed on his back, staring at the spotty ceiling. So  _ that _ happened. Ned wonders if Conor has run away again, before remembering that they’re on Conor’s boat. He wonders if Conor wanted to run away, after everything that happened last night.

Ned packs his guitar back into its case, and quietly padded his way through the inside of the boat with his bare feet. Conor was sitting on the deck, back turned to Ned and facing the sea with his legs dangling. Ned made his presence known gently and settles down next to Conor. Conor doesn’t look at him.

“Ned, about last night...” Conor’s voice is scratchy from sleep. He’s trying to sound stoic, or closed off, but his voice breaks quickly anyway.

“Do you regret it?” Ned doesn’t bother to hide the hurt in his voice. He’ll be fine, he lied to himself. They can move past this, it’s not that big of a deal. Even though it was one hell of a first kiss on Ned’s part. Ned’s sure it didn’t bother Conor all that much. Conor kisses people all the time anyway.

“No! I just, but. I just...” Conor protested immediately, and Ned waits patiently, watching Conor’s eyebrows screw together in frustration. It’s a cold morning, and Conor shivers slightly as he stares at his fidgeting hands in his lap. Ned silently pulls off his denim jacket and drapes it awkwardly over Conor’s broad shoulders. Conor readjusts it slightly, the smile almost directed at Ned small and sad. 

“I just thought you wanted to be friends,” Conor finishes quietly, still not quite looking at Ned. Ned almost scoffs loudly. He tries to be patient with Conor anyway.

“It doesn’t have to be one or another, Conor. We could still be friends, and... You can have both,” Ned says shyly, bravely taking one of Conor’s hands in his. He doesn’t say the word  _ date _ , or _ boyfriends _ , because it’s all too much to hope for. Conor is still avoiding his gaze, but at least he doesn’t pull away.

Conor is terrified. It’s all been going well, having Ned as a friend, and he doesn’t want to fuck it up, even though Ned clearly likes him back. (He has no idea how fucking much Ned likes him too.) Conor doesn’t like indulging himself - he’s used to being punished for wanting everything. It’s always too good to be true.

Ned leans into Conor’s side slightly when Conor doesn’t put up a fight, a solid warmth next to him. He clutches Conor’s fingers tighter as Conor watches forlorningly into the distance, the ocean stretching out endlessly in front of them. 

It’s all so blue - Conor looks out and sees home, where he could be free and whoever he wants to be. Conor turns to Ned, who’s already looking back at him with kind eyes void of judgement. Ned’s always there for him. Ned would’ve been fine with whatever Conor decides, even if it was to break his heart. 

Ned’s eyes, they’re all the same blue. Conor is allowed to have him. Conor is allowed to have  _ both _ , all of it. Being himself, a good friend, being with Ned. He doesn’t have to choose. He deserves all of it.

Conor picks up their intertwined hands and plants a kiss on the back of Ned’s hand. Ned beams at him. Conor can’t help by crack a toothy smile back. 

“Oh man, now people are definitely gonna talk,” Ned laughs with a shit-eating grin, “And they’d be right.”

Conor laughs heartily and kiss that stupid expression off Ned’s face. He doesn’t care. Let them know, let them talk. Conor’s happy just as he is. With Ned.

Below the deck, stormy blue waters glitters back at them.

**Author's Note:**

> wow someone is really late to the party as you can tell. refreshed my obsession with this film, i know queer friendship is important, but also, the director said he deliberately made ned LooK at conor LIKE THAT, and we're allowed to take what we want away from it, so my gay ass is self indulging for all the best friends/roommates who never loved me back, sue me
> 
> if you like boarding school AUs... welcome to my profile, if you find a fandom you like i probably wrote a boarding school fic for it, enjoy x


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